


Darling, If Looks Could Kill

by PBJ32557



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Artist Steve Rogers, Attempted Murder, Concussions, Death Threats, Hurt Steve Rogers, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, concussed steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJ32557/pseuds/PBJ32557
Summary: Alternate Universe - Serial Killer Bucky & Non-serum Steve~People like Bucky Barnes existed simply to highlight the good in people like Steve Rogers. He had his purpose – there was no point in trying to be good; in praying for forgiveness to a God that didn’t care. A God that looked away every time Bucky sinned; every time other people sinned. Bucky imagined that God had watched his creations become monsters, though it wasn’t like he had any higher moral ground to stand on.The blond turned and locked eyes with him; wide and confused. He watched, unmoving as Bucky bent down, never breaking eye contact, and picked up the knife.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is from the song 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails
> 
> Bucky is serial killer and attempts to kill Steve - do I need to say anymore?
> 
> Now, I'm not trying to justify murder, death threats or attempted murder in any case here - if you're sensitive to such things please don't torture yourself, I'm not looking to make anybody uncomfortable. Stay safe, lock your doors and windows and enjoy some Stucky  
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated - thank you for reading

Bucky had been watching this kid for a few days now, knew almost everything about him: what he eat; how he slept; what he did; that he had no visitors and probably no immediate family or friends within the area. Steve Rogers; 20 years old; an almost-professional artist and part-time volunteer at his nearest local library, working six hours every Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday. The blond was frustratingly boring – woke up at sometime between five and seven AM without fail, even on weekends; had some sort of framed degree hanging up on the wall to do with art; worked on a canvas bigger than him for around an hour almost daily and then proceeded to read for another hour speckled with paint. Sometimes differing shades of blue were smeared across his face, making his eyes appear even more strikingly so too. 

He was good. Bucky knew a good person when he saw one – ironically enough, he was a good judge of character. He knew what he did was wrong. He had no reason for what he did – only that he wanted to do it. He wanted to kill Steve Rogers. He wanted to wipe that tiny smile off of his face that he had going round the house listening to songs from what Bucky assumed were outdated by at least fifty years. People like Bucky existed simply to highlight the good in people like Steve Rogers. He had his purpose – there was no point in trying to be good; in praying for forgiveness to a God that didn’t care. A God that looked away every time Bucky sinned. Every time other people sinned. Bucky imagined that God had watched his creations become monsters, though it wasn’t like he had any higher moral ground to stand on.

The nearest neighbour was about a mile down the stretch of road and forest. The blond wouldn’t be able to run that far before Bucky would catch him – Hell, the kid didn’t look like he could run for ten minutes without needing a paramedic and a nap. He was skinny and, from the looks of things, almost always sick. Boxes upon boxes of tissues were littered around the house like eggs on Easter and Bucky knew he kept an inhaler in every room. The kid had been getting through the worst of a cold from what he could tell, yesterday, spiralling into a coughing fit that sent him flying to the drawer to pull out an inhaler, staying attached to it for a good part of an hour afterwards. Bucky had watched from the window, curious as to how the blond had survived past three. There was a picture atop his bedside table that featured a tiny toddler with a mop of blond hair stubbornly falling into his eyes and a woman smiling, trying to push it from his face adoringly. She had a gentle smile and kind eyes, warm yet stunningly blue, and Bucky could tell that Steve had gotten his from her. 

The latch on the upstairs window was as easy as any and Bucky felt out of place stepping into the small bedroom after scaling the garage to reach it. The walls were a pale blue and the bedding was white with splatters of crimson and yellow hues here and there. With his black cargo pants and leather jacket, he moulded into the shadows disturbingly easy despite the sunlight pouring into the room from the midday clear skies. Slinking through the doorway, he leaned over the banister to get an idea of where the blond was. Probably fixing lunch, oblivious; unaware. He could see the front entrance and the doorway into the sitting room in which was a suede white sofa and a small TV on the wall. Once in the hall down the stairs, he glanced into the sitting room. The blond was nowhere to be seen amongst the white rug and the paintings hung on the walls. The canvases were splashes of colour throughout the room, all evidently painted by Steve’s hand and unsurprisingly beautiful. Bucky lingered on one just bigger than his both his hands put together – a tranquil watercolour of a willow tree surrounded by blooming daises and bluebells, bathed in golden sunlight.

Retreating back to the hall, feeling as if he’d just been punched, he looked in on the kitchen. The blond was there, no doubt, his back to the doorway and Bucky watched as he shuffled about the room seemingly searching for something. He twirled the butterfly knife in his fingers reflexively, preparing to stalk forward. Only he felt as the blade slipped from his fingertips and clattered to the floor with a metal clink. The blond turned and locked eyes with him; wide and confused. He watched, unmoving as Bucky bent down, never breaking eye contact and picked up the knife. They stood there, a standoff of sorts and Bucky almost smiled in amusement as the blond sighed, as if done with the universe and what it was throwing at him. 

~

Steve was so done with the universe. What the hell? Asthma; scoliosis; half-deaf; short-sighted; his mother and now this? A random man dressed all in black twirling a knife in his hand appearing in his house? Someone was out to get him – and he was convinced that it wasn’t just this stranger too.  
The man’s face was bare, stray locks of brown hair falling over his face. Whilst he wasn’t the worst thing to look at with his piercing grey eyes, defined jaw and excellent cheekbones – he was willingly letting Steve see his face. That meant he had no intention of letting Steve report this, call the police or leave his own house alive most likely. It wasn’t hard to put together given he was dressed like an assassin and was flipping a fucking knife in his hand. He made no move to step forward or away. Steve wasn’t sure whether this tension strung like a bow was worse than the idea of probably getting stabbed.

He felt the surprise – the imminent fear and fight-or-flight adrenaline seep from his veins, leaving him slumping against the counter, sighing and bringing his hands to his face to rub at his eyes. There was no getting away from him – he seemed to have at least a hundred pounds on Steve, let alone the fact that that would be all muscle and Steve was sure that even if he didn’t get killed by this man, then the shock would do a number on his heart and kill him anyway. It seemed that all the odds were in his favour today. 

Muffled by his palms, he groaned. “What do you want?” He purposely did not look back up, trying to breathe the necessary oxygen so he wouldn’t pass out from fright. 

There was no audible answer and Steve was forced to heave another breath and glance back up at the intruder. The man had seemingly disappeared. Steve was trying desperately to get his shit together, torn between running for a phone (and falling into the oh-so obvious trap) and staying put with his back to the counter. After another shaky breath and fleeting study of the kitchen in search of the trespasser he pushed away from the countertop and headed to the living room. Making a quick dash for his mobile sitting on the windowsill maddeningly far across the room, he processed the hands coming to wrap around his middle and momentarily pluck him from the floor as though he weighed nothing a second too late. A moment later he found himself pressed against the wall he remembered painting some cringe-worthy name shade of blue upon moving in last year late November. The hand around his neck seemed to do an A* job of keeping him from getting distracted for too long though and in a futile attempt to dislodge the terrifying grip, his hands came to grasp at the intruder’s.

The awful drag of his breath told Steve that his asthma was making another unwelcome return as he sucked in a painful gasp, feeling the blood rush to his face from the pressure on his blood vessels. He was getting lightheaded, fast and Steve needed to get away from this man. With little options to choose from and no time to make any well-thought out decisions, he brought his foot back and kicked the man as hard as he was able. The man jerked – mostly in surprise – and for Steve, that was enough to shove the arm away and twist from the man’s grasp, grabbing his cell and scrambling hurriedly out the sitting room. He almost paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, lungs refusing to breathe before hurtling into the bedroom and throwing himself into the wardrobe. Shoving the blanket out of the way and over himself whilst listening acutely for any footsteps, he made his shaking fingers bring up the keypad on the screen.

He forced himself to still though, holding his breath in surprise once light, streaming and almost blinding, bled through the blanket. His chest burned and he strained not to yell at the unfairness of the situation. After a few painful, empty moments of despaired waiting he heaved a breath, loud in his own ears and cried out quietly, frantic and dying for a miracle. The hand that then wrapped around his calf, he thought derisively, would not necessarily be considered a miracle. Steve believed in no God; there was no faith he would have usually looked to for any last thoughts or hopes but as the back of his head ricocheted from the wood of the door, pulled by the hand around his leg, he could have sworn that, given more time, he would have prayed.

~

Steve awoke groggily, the back of his head throbbing like how he remembered his hangovers. Once he slowly came to, ears ringing like bells and face pressed against the cushion, he sat up feeling as if a weight had been strapped to his head. After almost falling off the sofa twice, just barely catching himself, he stumbled into the kitchen. What the hell had he been doing? And why did his head hurt?

Reaching for a glass in the cupboard, it was then that he caught sight of a shadow sitting at his table. The figure stood up once Steve turned to really look at him in wonder. Steve dropped the glass, stomach turning over with a crash and vomited on the floor. Shaking, he dropped to his knees and felt the tears stream down his face, eyes shut tightly at the pulsing in his head; every heartbeat feeling like a sledgehammer connecting with his skull. He registered hands pull him up into a set of arms and carry him away from the mess in the kitchen. Steve didn’t remember much after that.

~

When had Bucky turned into a babysitter? Something about the kid had stopped him from wanting to hurt him. It could’ve been the kind eyes staring through him from the photograph on the wall; the fact that the blond was interesting and had not reacted like anybody else Bucky remembered; or that Steve Rogers wasn’t like anybody else he’d ever met before – during scoping the place out the past few days, Bucky had noticed that the kid was different. He wasn’t cocky or liked to present himself as a martyr or any other kind of ‘good’ he’d seen before. He was pure and honest in everything that he did. He was a clean slate and sincere in his every action – Bucky hadn’t seen that in anybody but people unashamed of their crimes; their sins; their desires. Steve was none of that.

But he _had_ seen his face. It was Bucky’s fault entirely – if he’d have just worn the goddamn mask then he could have left by now and wouldn’t have to worry about the blond calling the cops. It wasn’t Steve’s fault that his first reaction would be to call 911 – but it was Bucky’s problem. He would have to get rid of the kid, even if he didn’t want to. He could blame it on the fact that it had been two years since he’d last purged that bloodlust. But he would know he’d be lying to himself. Setting the kid delicately back on the sofa he returned to the kitchen and busied himself with cleaning up the vomit. It gave him a distraction from the problem at hand, at least. What the fuck was he going to do?


End file.
